


The Collection

by sadreel-trash (mind_and_malady)



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_and_malady/pseuds/sadreel-trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every sadreel prompt I receive will go here. Each chapter is an individual prompt, with a special note made if it's a sequel/continuation to whatever other prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> maadskittlez29 asked:  
> Hellooo! First of all, I LOVE the fics you've posted so far. Second I was wondering if you were still interested in getting Sadreel prompts. I imagine Gadreel would be ashamed of his wings because they used to be so beautiful but are tattered and damaged now, and I'd love a fic where Sam comforts him and tells him how amazing he thinks they are. :) (Sorry if this sends twice for some reason)

Gadreel shifts uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. It’s nerve-wracking to have his wings out but having  _Sam_  there with him too? It’s awful, and he wants to close his eyes against it, but he’s locked in fight-or-flight and he can’t bring himself to look away from the potential threat.

It’s ridiculous. Gadreel knows Sam is terrified to hurt him - he asked for  _permission_ before leaving bruising kisses scattered across his collarbones. But he’s spent millennia locked in pain and his wings have borne the brunt of that weight.

That’s the other thing.

His wings are ruined. They used to be enormous, colored with vibrant greens and blue, purple along the tips of his primaries and flecked with white along the ridge of bone. He had guarded Eden with his wings, kept the gates from being so much as glimpsed while he stood there. Now, they’re broken, damaged beyond any means of repair. Feather’s refuse to grow along the joints, where hooks had been driven through the muscle to hold him aloft and keep him chained. Scorched feathers are abundant, brittle and charred from the Fall. Other burns, from the careful application of holy oil under Thaddeus’ eager hands, are still black and utterly devastated. Those, at least, are not too common. Thaddeus hadn’t enjoyed working with holy oil since he lost a feather to it, once.

Shame makes him shift again, hands curling into fists on the bed. He doesn’t want Sam to see him like this. He wants Sam to know him as he was once. Sam deserves better than the broken creature he’s chosen, so Gadreel tries to be better, does his best to be good. Most of the time, it’s enough. But there are times, like now, when he can’t hide where his jagged edges bump and rub together.

Sam had asked, and Gadreel had agreed to show him, but he’s afraid that the sight of his ruined wings is only going to trigger the revelation in Sam that he deserves  _better._  He deserves someone who is still whole and unbroken.

"They’re beautiful," is the first thing Sam says, almost a full minute after Gadreel pulls them into being. Gadreel closes his eyes, breath falling out of him in a heavy  _woosh._

"They really aren’t," Gadreel murmurs, staring down at his lap. "They’ve been ruined."

Sam closes the short distance between them, until his feet are in Gadreel’s line of sight. When he looks up, Sam extends a hand to push through his short hair, coming to rest at the nape of his neck. “Am I allowed to touch them?” he asks.

Gadreel shuts his eyes again, nods once as he swallows. Sam sees through him immediately, hand sliding lower to rest in the crook of his neck, thumb over his pulse. “If you don’t want me to-“

"I want you to," Gadreel says hurriedly, because he  _does_ , he practically aches with how bad he wants Sam’s hands, his careful, gentle hands, on his wings. “I’m just - nervous.”

"Okay," Sam says softly, accepting it. When his fingers trail lightly over the soft feathers along the curve of bone, Gadreel shudders, breath stuttering. Sam keeps stroking, one hand still resting gently at the base of Gadreel’s neck, until the angel’s breathing has evened out and the wing is nudging upwards into his touch, very carefully.

"You’re beautiful, Gadreel," Sam says again, voice soft and shining with something that feels like awe.

Gadreel closes his eyes, and lets himself believe that, if only for a little while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thehinkypanda asked:  
> I'm a sucker for anything hurt/comfort so how about Gadreel realizing, after a hunt gone awry, that he can't always protect Sam from getting hurt. But he can certainly pick up the pieces afterwards. And a second one, if you're taking just Gadreel prompts, I would love to see your take on his vessel's backstory.

"Sam, just let him -"

"I’m  _fine_ , Dean.”

"You nearly got skewered like a goddamn shish kabob by that wendigo!" Dean glowered, picking up his bag from the trunk. He turned to Gadreel, jabbing a finger at him. "You. Make him listen. He sure as hell won’t listen to  _me._ ”

He stormed off, the door to his motel room slamming shut, leaving Sam and Gadreel standing silently in the crisp autumn air. Sam was scowling at the ground, clearly pissed, but Gadreel was relieved just to see him alive and standing.

Hunting was dangerous, especially for humans. Perhaps especially for  _Winchesters._ He knew that, technically. Sam had nearly died often enough, and Gadreel had nearly gotten used to the panic inducing sight of Sam leaning against a wall, grinning through a bloody mouth, or concussions, or stab wounds, or cracked ribs. But this time - it had been close. It had been far,  _far_  too close. They almost hadn’t gotten there in time.

Gadreel doesn’t want to think about that. Doesn’t want to think about finding Sam’s corpse, bloody and broken, a hollow vessel. There would be no resurrection - none of the angels could spare the strength. His soul would be doomed to wander the Earth forever, or until Heaven’s Gates were reopened, whichever came first.

The thought of Sam being stuck on Earth, cursed to become something he had once hunted, makes his stomach clench and his breathing still, body finding an unnatural stillness. He hates the idea, hates it more than he realized he could hate anything - more than Thaddeus’ blade, or Lucifer’s words, or Metatron. The idea of Sam suffering is abhorrent to him.

He and Dean have that in common, at the very least.

"Sam," Gadreel starts, but stops, unsure of how to put what he wants to say.

Sam looks up at him, clearly tired and in pain, still angry, but also calm and even a touch cheerful. “I’m fine, Gad,” he says, just a bit too exasperated to be soothing.

"I know that," Gadreel agrees. "But there are abrasions on your forearms from where it dragged you through gravel -" and wasn’t  _that_  a terrifying sight to see, Sam struggling upside down in the grip of the beast, “- and I would like to heal them.”

"What?" Sam glanced down at his arms, twisted them to look at the back where angry red line were oozing blood. He pressed a finger over the reddened skin and hissed, immediately dropping his arms. "Yeah," he says. "Alright, go ahead."

Gadreel steps closer, rests one hand in Sam’s and the other on the curve of his neck. It takes barely any effort at all to heal the abrasions - and the stiff muscles, and the bruises, and the micro-thin crack in his sternum. Sam lets out a sharp breath, blinking rapidly and tilting forward. Gadreel catches him gently, and helps Sam right himself, though he still leans against the angel.

"That wasn’t just my arms," he accuses, rubbing at his eyes.

"No, it was not," Gadreel agrees, still holding on to him. "I’m sorry."

Sam narrows his eyes, but then his features smooth out. “You’re an awful liar,” he remarks.

Gadreel’s ears turn red. “I’m sorry for lying,” he tacks on. “But I’m not sorry for healing you, Sam. You - humans are so  _fragile,_ Sam. And I can heal you if you’re close to death, but if - if I find you, and you’re already gone, then I - I can’t -” He has to stop, close his eyes and breath in.

He opens his eyes. Sam is staring at him, quiet and waiting, so he pushes out the rest of the words. “I can’t lose you,” he admits, feels his shoulders slump a little in the helplessness of the statement. “I know you risk your life every time you hunt, and I know you do it to protect others, but - Sam.  _Please_. Try to be safe. I - I can’t lose you.”

Sam is very, very quiet. His eyes are locked with Gadreel’s, hazel shining with guilt and unshed tears. He blinks, and water rolls down his cheek, but he ignores it.

"I’m sorry." Sam squeezes Gadreel’s hand. "I don’t - I can’t promise anything. I’ll do what I have to, when it comes down to it. But I’ll try. I promise."

Gadreel smiles, closes the tiny gap between them and wraps Sam in his arms. “That’s all I can ask,” he says, and then buries his face in Sam’s hair. Sam clutches him back, arms hooked around his neck and face buried in the space between them.

"I need you, too," Sam murmurs, lips brushing against skin. "And I’m sorry that what you need breaks so easily."

"It’s alright." Gadreel’s voice is soft as a breeze. "I’ve gotten good at fixing things."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> If you're still taking prompts, could you write about sam and gad shifting about to find a good cuddle position? Please?

"Sam, what are you -  _oh._ ”

Gadreel shifts, trying to adjust to Sam’s arm slung over his waist, the other arm pressed between them and toying with a string on Gadreel’s shirt. Their legs end up twined together, and Gadreel’s head is tucked under Sam’s chin. 

"Being the little spoon wasn’t working for me," Sam murmurs, half-asleep. "You good with this?"

Gadreel takes a moment to breathe and adjust. The warmth of Sam’s body bleeds into him freely, and the cocoon of blankets around them only makes Sam’s arms seem more comforting.

"Yes," he agrees with a sigh, lets himself relax even more and close his eyes. "This is good."

"Good," Sam’s voice is a sleepy mumble, slurred and only barely understandable. "You deserve to be protected for once."

He’s asleep within the next dozen breaths, but Gadreel lies awake awhile longer, revelling in the warmth and the safety of Sam’s presence. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Could you write now-human-Gadreel getting drunk for the first time (maybe by Dean's hand) and he gets into Sam's bed that night and when Sam tries to get him out he tells him that he can't sleep alone because he has nightmares about prison and begs Sam to let him stay?

Sam finds Dean giggling into a bottle of Jack Daniel’s at ten o’clock, and he’s very clearly drunk. Drunk enough that he’s having trouble keeping a grip on the neck of the bottle, half slumped over in his seat. And  _giggling._

He’s kind of tempted to get a video of it. Just as evidence that it happened, and that he wasn’t hallucinating. Instead, he takes the bottle away with a sigh, ignoring Dean’s feeble protests, and puts it away, only to notice another bottle is missing.

"You didn’t." It’s the first thing Sam thinks. "Dean. You did  _not._ ”

"Made a bet he couldn’ hold his li- his liquor as good as me," Dean snickers. "He  _lost._ ”

"Fantastic," Sam mutters. He helps Dean to his room and unceremoniously dumps him on the bed. "You’re an asshole," he declares. Dean guffaws, sprawled out limply on his bed, still laughing when Sam shuts the door.

Sam pokes his head into each bathroom and Gadreel’s bedroom, but the fallen angel (really truly fallen now) isn’t anywhere Sam can find him. He stops by his room to get his phone and call Cas to beg for help, and stops short.

Gadreel is curled up on Sam’s bed, knees close to his chest, arms tucked in the space between them. His head isn’t quite on the pillows, just beneath them. He’s missing his shirt and his shoes, and his jeans are unbuttoned but still on. His gaze is glassy, but when light floods the room from the open door, he blinks, focusing.

"Sam," he says, voice low and rough around the edges. He blinks heavily, and then yawns.

"Oh no," Sam’s already shaking his head, moving over to the bed and reaching out to force him into a sitting position. "Sorry, Gad, you can’t sleep in here. C’mon, let’s get you back to your room."

Gadreel resists, remaining upright but refusing to stand. “Can’t sleep there,” he mumbles.

"Why not?"

"Forget," he says, slumping towards Sam, head lolling against the taller man’s shoulder. “‘S dark, and I’m alone, an’ Thaddeus is there sometimes."

Sam closes his eyes, absentmindedly wrapping an arm around Gadreel’s shoulders and rubbing at his arm. Gadreel hums, turns to bury his face in Sam’s shirt.

"Why did you come to my room, Gad?"

Gadreel lifts his head, blinking blearily. “Smells like you,” he says. “Knew I wasn’ - wasn’t in a cell anymore. ‘M safe here.”

_Damn it._

"You need to stand up, Gadreel."

Gadreel shakes his head. “I’m stayin’,” he insists.

Sam nods. “I know. But I’m going to stay too, so I need to pull back the blankets, okay?”

Slowly, Gadreel nods, standing on wobbly feet as Sam pulls the blankets away, and collapsing back onto the bed as soon as he’s done. Sam sighs and toes off his own shoes, hunts down his sweatpants and ignores Gadreel’s eyes as they follow him around the room.

"You’re letting me stay?" Gadreel sounds hazy and surprised. Before Sam can answer, he starts to plead. "Please let me stay, please, I wanna stay, ‘s safe here, please -"

"Gad," Sam comes over and sits behind him, places a hand his shoulder. "You can stay, it’s alright."

"Don’t wanna dream," he mumbles, quieter now. He shifts and turns on the bed, angling towards Sam. "Bad dreams. Bad,  _bad_  dreams.”

"No bad dreams tonight," Sam soothes, laying down beside him. Gadreel immediately grabs him, arms encircling his waist while burying his face in Sam’s hair. Sam lets out a surprised noise, but relaxes into it, doesn’t comment when Gadreel’s hands slip under his shirt and press against his abdomen. Instead, he lays his hands over Gadreel’s, sliding their fingers together.

"Sleep well, Gadreel," he murmurs, as the once-angel’s breathing evens out behind him. His arm curls a little tighter around Sam’s chest, bringing them flush together and Sam - Sam can’t really bring himself to mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 3/11 - Morning after continuation in chapter 6


	5. The Vessel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For thehinkypanda who requested Gadreel's vessel's backstory  
> Warnings for homophobia, murder, arson, and child abuse.

On his sixth birthday, his parents brought him to a public garden.

It was beautiful. That’s all he really remembers about it. The sunlight had been warm and rich and golden, the sky a bright cerulean through the glass roofs of the greenhouses. Birds had been singing, canaries and swallows and a dozen other songbirds.

Roses of every color had bloomed along a trellis-inlaid wall, twisting and crossing each other wildly in a veritable rainbow. Lily of the valley and iris, daisies and marigold and birds of paradise. Ivy clinged where it could, dragging itself over the walls. Even the weeds had been beautiful - purple clover and dandelions and oxalis.

It felt like he had stepped into a wild world, a more beautiful world, full of hiding places and peace, a place that never ended, where he could run and laugh and sleep and never want to cry again. He felt, for just a moment, like he had seen the Garden the priest talked about, something otherworldly and yet entirely of Earth. For less than a minute, he knew absolute peace.

Then the screaming started, and the world shattered like glass.

A fire, they said later. Destroyed the garden entirely, turned the whole place to ash. A miracle really, they said, that there had only been two casualties. But what a pity that they had to leave behind their little boy, what a pity, what a shame.

Social Services scooped him up and sent him into the Foster Care system with a bag of clothes, his mother’s cross, and a promise that his parents things would be his when he was old enough. 

The first family was alright.

(Imagine a young boy with hundreds of freckles, pale, shrugging thin shoulders and digging his shoes into the dirt, eyes lowered as he says “ _'s alright, I guess.”_ to the Social Services worker, who brushes his meekness off as a result of being orphaned, who doesn’t question the dullness in his green eyes, doesn’t question the light bruises on his arms and wrists and legs.)

The second family was far better.

(Imagine a farm, with horses and cows and sheepdogs, a whole host of barn cats. A litter of kittens is born while he’s there, and the family entrusts the care of them to him and their middle child, a sweet girl with coffee colored skin and wild hair and eyes the same electric hue of lightning.)

The third was a nightmare he does his best not to remember.

(Don’t imagine a family. Imagine the violent burst of a vacuum seal, the destruction on the event horizon of a black hole, the rush of nothingness and unknown inside. Imagine a wall of white noise, each static speck an aggressive mosquito that bites you if you get too close. Imagine the bottom of the ocean, still and dark and silent, the crushing weight of water.)

(Don’t imagine a ten year old boy on his knees on hardwood floors, begging and crying for days before the silence comes and takes all sound from him. Don’t imagine the agony of a summer spent outside in the sweltering heat, digging out weeds from a dying garden, or cold nights spent enclosed in the space-black basement, the door out locked from the outside while he sits on a thin and stained mattress, staring out the tiny window at the stars and asking himself where that Garden the pastor talked about was as he thumbs his mama’s cross. Don’t imagine him working up courage, asking the woman in that house how he could find Eden, or the sound of her hand across his face as she slaps him, her ring digging a scar into his cheek.)

The rest of the families are a blur. It’s the same variation, every time. Sometimes he gets unlucky, and he gets the bad ones a few times in a row. The nice ones were shining points of light, stars on a moonless sky.

He grows up, lean and strong, too thin from unhealthy eating and stress. He wears jeans all the time, and his shoes are always too thin in the soles. He gets into the habit of wearing lots of shirts to make up for the cold and shoddy heating (tank top, t-shirt, flannel, sweatshirt, leather jacket) and he grabs hats when he can, any kind of hat. He likes the winter hats the best, loves how soft and warm they are when he can get his hands on nice ones.

High school is a map of barely-passing grades and a dismissal of colleges. He navigates friendless hallways with very few words. It’s the running joke, wherever he is, that “the new kid doesn’t smile.” It becomes a game. They’ll do anything to make him twitch at all, and they quickly find that reactions are brought out best by shoving and punching and scarring. He lets them come to him, lets them be cruel and volatile because he sees the sympathy in the eyes of others like him, who are too quiet or too thin or are too familiar with the air that they all carry, heavy depression and numbness.

If they come after him, they won’t go after the rest. So long as he holds, they will remain. And so he holds, and lets them hurt him, and thinks to himself  _go ahead, try to break me_ like it’s a dare.

He graduates by the skin of his teeth and is given his parents things by right of the will. He visits the house he was supposed to grow up in, finds twelve years worth of junk mail and not much else inside the front door. Dust covers everything, and the air is tinted with the motes. The air is stagnant, untouched for decades. The lights don’t work, the water is dubious. He puts the furniture in a U-Haul and sells the house and everything else he doesn’t want.

He only spends enough time in town to see if the Garden had ever been regrown. In its place he finds a stone plaque and a grove of ash trees that are weak and sickly looking. He breaks the chain on his mother’s necklace and buries it in the grove with dandelion fluff and clover seeds.

He finds a tiny town in Texas that needs a bartender when he’s nineteen, and rents a trailer while he works there. He’s got the right hands for the job, the owner says. Rock steady, reliable hands, calloused.  _Those hands have a story,_  he said, like he expected him to tell it right then and there.  _Not a nice one,_  he’d said, and the owner had boomed a laugh and clapped a hand on his shoulder before settling himself down in a chair to criticize his technique.

The owner’s son is named Jacob, and his eyes are brown. He’s never seen brown eyes like these, the color of dust and speckled with gold, sometimes dark enough to look as though rain had come to dry earth after the longest drought. His hair is the color of chocolate. His hands are covered with dirt and streaks of green, and he sits in the bar with his father to drink a beer and talk about his work in a greenhouse. His laugh is throaty and low and beautiful, and his voice is gentle.

They kiss in the bed of Jacob’s truck, miles from town underneath the stars. They’re scared of being caught, because this town is run by twister-sick skies and hellfire sermons, and there are too many people who would happily castrate anyone who didn’t fit into their perception of normal.

Jacob tells him that he wants to move away to the West coast, to California or maybe Oregon. Jacob wants to see the ocean outside his window and he doesn’t want to be this scared of who he is. Jacob wants to feel safe enough to wear dresses and jewelry and garters inside his own home, even if he can’t do it outside.

He holds Jacob close and promises him everything, promises him the world. He gives Jacob his heart and his soul and every ounce of decency and respect and love he has left in him. He promises to protect and defend him.  _Fuck to have and to hold_ , he’d said one night.  _I will fight and die for you._

Jacob laughs when he says it, calls him dramatic, and kisses every freckles he can find.

One day four years later he comes into work and finds the owner and Jacob sitting at a table, far from the door, with a shotgun sitting on the table. Jacob is crying, and his eyes are black with grief.

 _You corrupted my son._ _Get the hell out of my town._  He didn’t yell, but his voice was filled with venom and ice, and he had turned around with a brisk nod and bolted back to his trailer.

He left Jacob with roses and ivy and a packet of dried dandelion seeds  _so that the wind might blow their seeds to me._  

He took Jacob’s dream for his own and went as far West as he could before he ran out of gas, ended up close to the border between California and Nevada. He stayed in the first town he went to for three days, then kept going, until he was driving with the sea to his left the roads only heading North. He kept to the southern edge, found another trailer and another town and another dingy bar.

He stays for six months and leaves again, moves to Oregon. Pine trees and waterfalls, warm summers and frozen winters and rainy in between, brisk air and saltwater.

He’s twenty-four, and the owner of the next bar is named Rose. She and her friend Angie own the place, but hire him on as an extra hand. It becomes apparent to him almost immediately that they do the same dance he and Jacob did, pretending to just be good friends while in actuality they’re sneaking kisses in the backrooms and having sex in the bathrooms. He lets them play at it, but one day when Rose glances at a male customer and says  _I’d sure as hell tap that._ he returns it with  _I’d rather let him tap me._

She stares at him, and he holds her gaze, completely passive. And then she laughs, and drags him into the backroom, and gasps out to Angie,  _He’s fucking gay, angel, we were freaking out for nothing._ Angie begins to laugh, and after a long few moments, he cracks a small, crooked smile. It has been eight months since he left Jacob, and eight months since he smiled.

The bar is consumed in a blaze three years later by a man enraged at “those fucking faggots” and he watches it burn on the news that night, the appropriately sympathetic mention of casualties. There is no reason given for the fire - to the public, it is simply arson. He knows the truth. He knows why, and he hates it, hates it so much he could destroy the world with his rage.

He stays in Oregon, moves closer to the sea. He works the night shift in a restaurant bar, and buys a sailboat impulsively at a yard sale. He spends his days off on the boat, drifting on the water and soaking in the sun. He floats past jellyfish and collects seaweed to dry and press and use as bookmarks.

The restaurant job lasts another six dull years, and then his boss quietly lets him go, with an apology and as much of a bonus as he can afford. 2008 is not a good year for business, and he leaves the coast again, heads east once more. He flirts with danger and drives through Jacob’s town in Texas on his way to Louisiana and the promise of a steady job, and he sees the owner of the old bar, sitting stone faced on a wooden bench, but he does not see Jacob. That’s okay, though. He hasn’t moved on, won’t ever move on, but the pain of being separate is a dull one, and not worth the risk of ruining whatever life he led now.

New Orleans ( _New Awlins, boy, say it right_ ) is busy and bright and loud. It stinks with the mass of people and is rich with new things. Gumbo and jambalaya, open air markets, ice cream stores every couple blocks, voodoo shops selling curses and incense and charms. The land is ripe with history and life and he loses himself here, gets a job as a bartender in a hole-in-the-wall that has poetry nights and happy hour drinks with names like “You’re Going to Kill a Man” and “Your Coworkers are Idiots.”

Louisiana is his home for another four years, and then he needs a break, needs to breathe, and goes north to Kansas. It’s quieter here, and the locals are friendly enough. It’s not quite peace, but it’s quiet, and that’s all he hopes for at this point. He grows as many plants as he can manage, cacti and daffodils and philodendrons and Devil’s Ivy. He lets the dandelions in his yard grow wild and reach insane heights, and his life is quiet.

When the angel comes, they share stories and names. He finds it fitting, that the angel who finds him worthwhile is even more broken than he is.

"What happens to me, while you’re out here?"

"I can place you into a dream. You would be entirely unaware of the events outside this dream."

"Can I make it? The dream, I mean."

"You can mold it however you chose. All I must do is place you within it."

He crafts the Garden from the day his parents died, as beautiful and unlikely as a fever dream, and places within reach a farm and Jacob and Rose and Angie and a boat on the sea and the brightness of New Orleans.

"Can I ask a favor?"

"Anything."

"If we’re about to die, don’t tell me. Just…this is my death, right now. I don’t want to come back."

"I cannot promise that. I’m sorry. If I leave you, then you will awaken."

"Well, if you leave, then come back to me. Standing permission." He offers the angel (a man shaped galaxy, with translucent skin that burns with starlight and features that shift and blur and ruined wings the size of mountains morphing in and out of existence behind him) one of his last crooked smiles.

"Alright then. I’m ready. Yes."

The world turns into something gray and misty, and then it’s nothing but beautiful, and all he knows is peace.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Well if you're in the mood for more angsty-fluff then what about the next day after Gadreel's drunken confession where he's a hungover and doesn't remember what he said and Sam tries to talk to him about it
> 
> Continuation of Chapter 4

For a few long moments, all Gadreel feels is pain. He groans, and then winces, because that was loud and it  _hurt._ What had happened? He can’t remember much, can’t even remember if they were on a hunt, and curses the fallibility of human memory.

It occurs to him, slowly, that he is holding someone, and that someone is laughing. He blinks his eyes open, grateful for the dark of room, and realizes it’s Sam, smiling and looking a little smug.

“Good morning,” Sam says, very quietly.

Gadreel makes a confused noise in the back of his throat. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, broken only by the light under the door, he realizes that this isn’t his room. He’s in Sam’s room, with his arms and hands in places where they really have no business being, especially not on Sam’s body. Did - did he  _sleep_ here?

“Sam?” His voice sounds strange and alien to his own ears, all rough and scratchy and muddled. Was that even  _English?_

Sam grins at him openly now, and Gadreel’s confusion only grows. Shouldn’t Sam be upset with him? He’s learned well by now that the hunter protects his room and his privacy like a grizzly protects her cubs. WHy would Sam let him sleep here, let him share his bed?

The smile tapers off, settling just onto the corners of his mouth as Gadreel tries and fails to sit up. He barely manages a few inches before his head swims and he flops back down with a pained groan.

“Why -” his voice cracks, so he swallows, tries again. “Why am I in here?”

Sam’s smile drops entirely. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” Gadreel shakes his head minutely, very carefully. “I don’t - I don’t remember much since after dinner - was it yesterday?”

“Shit,” Sam mutters, sits up, and Gadreel’s hands fall away from the warmth of his skin. For a moment, he’s afraid that Sam will be angry with him, but then a large hand squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m gonna get you some water. Here,” he carefully helps Gadreel into a sitting position, offers him a small smile before walking out into the brightness of the hallway.

Why was Sam being kind to him? Well - Sam was always kind to him, always willing to listen to his painfully ignorant questions and explain in a way that educational without being patronizing, always had a smile and coffee for him in the mornings; he was always willing to help him with the translation of Enochian documents, and always,  _always_  willing to pair with Gadreel when they split on hunts. But his room was off-limits, period, no exceptions. No one went in unless Sam was in there and had given permission, not even Dean. The one time Gadreel had witnessed Dean break this unspoken rule had ended in a fight that had nearly come to blows, and that was nearly six months ago. It made very little sense that Sam wouldn’t be angry with him.

After a few minutes have gone by, longer than would be necessary to get a glass of water, Gadreel tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand. He ends up falling back onto the bed with a hard bounce that sets his head on fire, just barely having avoided face-planting onto the floor. And it’s just his luck, of course, that this is the moment Sam chooses to open the door, holding a glass of water and and orange and a plate of toast, all of which he sets down with an exasperated look to help Gadreel right himself.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Sam asks, and though he sounds stern, it’s more exasperated than angry. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Idiot. Here, drink that  _slowly._ Very slowly, okay? If you throw up on my bed I’m never forgiving you for it,” he adds jokingly, and Gadreel accepts the food and the water, eats a little of each before stopping. He barely restrains himself from guzzling down the sweet water, like Heaven on his throat and in his mouth, which felt thick and fuzzy.

“I don’t - I don’t understand,” he admits, and Sam quirks an eyebrow. “Why am I in here?”

“Damn,” Sam shakes his head, sitting beside Gadreel with a foot tucked under the opposing thigh. “Do you remember anything?” When Gadreel shakes his head, Sam sighs. “Alright, well, essentially, you got your ass handed to you by Dean in a drinking contest. Given that he’s whistling and making breakfast, and you’re sick as a dog, I’m gonna say you drank…probably a whole bottle of whiskey, maybe a little more, in less than half an hour. I found Dean in the kitchen, dropped him in his room. I found you in here, and I let you stay.”

“Why?” Gadreel sounds bewildered and rough.

Sam’s expression shutters a little, he bites at his cheek, his eyes flick over Gadreel’s shoulder. “You made a convincing argument,” he says, a touch evasively.

Arguments would not convince Sam. Gadreel knows this. No amount of logic would persuade Sam to let him stay here. But he can’t come straight at this. Whatever he said, Sam thinks it best not repeated, that much is clear, and that is - that worries him. What did he say?

“I was drunk,” Gadreel deadpans, and Sam’s mouth twitches into a small grin before dropping it again.

“Yeah, you were,” Sam agrees. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing, and then looks pointedly at the food in Gadreel’s lap. He gets the message, and munches lightly on the toast while Sam visibly gathers his words.

“Look,” Sam sighs, “people say things when they’re drunk, things they wouldn’t normally say. You didn’t say anything - bad,” he reassures, “just shared some stuff that I think you might be, uh, uncomfortable, with me knowing. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’d like to think that if I were, then you would have told me before now.”

The list of things that he does not want Sam to know is very short, and very painful.

“Sam.” His voice is thin now, and he clenches his hands to keep them from shaking. “What did I say?”

“You talked about having nightmares,” Sam says slowly, and Gadreel’s breath falls away from him. Sam presses on. “Ones where you thought you were truly back in prison, and that - that your torturer was coming back for you. You said you couldn’t sleep in your room because you were alone and that made you forget. And then - you said that you felt safer here. With me.

“So I let you sleep here and I let you hold me because that seemed like what you needed, and I -” Sam shrugs helpless, offers a tiny, apologetic smile. “I get that, Gadreel. I understand the nightmares; I have them too, you know that. If you want help sleeping, you can ask, y’know?”

Gadreel is already shaking his head quickly despite the pain it causes, horrified with himself, setting the food the the almost empty cup on the bedside table. “No, no, I couldn’t - I can’t impose on you like that, this is your room, I’m not -”

“Gad,” Sam smiles at him, kind and warm and gentle. “I made my room to be comforting to _me_. It is, in a way, me. It’s my things and my interests and my books. If it happens to be that _I_  am what is comforting to you, then that’s fine. It’s alright, Gadreel.”

“I - Sam, you don’t need to - you shouldn’t -”

Sam sighs again, heavy and low, before reaching out. He wraps his arms around Gadreel’s waist and pulls him close, and suddenly Gadreel is surrounded by Sam, by his warmth and the smell of his hair and the feel of his skin, the muscles that move and bend beneath it. All he can do is breath and fall into it, feeling crowded and closed in but not overwhelmed. Sam is safe. It’s a fact that’s been driven into his mind by every act of undeserved kindness he had received, and there were so many of them. His arms lift and wrap around Sam’s shoulders, his face is buried in Sam’s neck, and Sam just continues to breathe quietly and evenly as his arms tighten further around Gadreel’s waist.

“Consider this a permanent invitation to sleep here when you’d like to,” Sam murmurs, mouth brushing the skin of Gadreel’s ear. “Let me worry about what I should and shouldn’t be doing. Okay?”

Gadreel nods, and clings to the back of his shirt even tighter. Sam says nothing else, just holds him, says nothing about the few tears that sting Gadreel’s eyes and land on his shirt.


	7. You Did What Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Could you write something where Gadreel brings home a stray kitten or something and he convinces Sam to keep it. Maybe a scene hiding the cat from dean, Dean walks into the room, Sam just grabs the cat and hides it under his shirt, "did I hear a cat in here?" "Cat what cat there's no cat here" and the lump under Sam's shirt meows.
> 
> Not quite what you asked for, but, here's something for it in any case.

Gadreel closes the door to Sam’s room looking even more serious than normal, his expression grave. His hands are cradling something underneath his jacket with extreme care, and it wriggles.

“Sam,” Gadreel’s voice is lower than usual, and quiet, like he’s afraid someone will hear them, even though they’re alone in the bunker for at least another two days. “I need assistance.”

“O-kay?” Sam’s already turned in his seat, an eyebrow raised. “With what?”

“I am unaware of the precise care needed by kittens.”

Dean’s going to kill them. There will be cat fur and pet toys everywhere within a few hours, Sam is certain of it. And yet, he can’t find himself willing to protest.

“Where did you get a cat?” he asks instead.

Gadreel shrugs. “I found it while walking. The mother was feral, in all likelihood, and was recently killed or captured. This one had wandered off while - I believe it was an eagle - attacked the rest of the litter. I found him.”

The ball that Gadreel pulls from his chest quickly uncurls, wriggling and whining with tiny mews. The kitten is dirty, covered in drying dirt and mud, and he looks a little thin, too.

Sam stands and comes closer, gently pets the kitten and feels it calm and purr. “Any idea how old it might be?” he wonders.

Gadreel glances down, and the kitten meets his gaze with a high-pitched _mrow._  “Six weeks or so, I believe,” he decides, and then looks up worriedly. “Not too young?”

“To be helped?” Sam shakes his head. “Nah. We can help him out. Give me a minute, I’ll figure out what we have around to feed him and clean him up around here, and then we can run to a pet store, get a few things.”

Gadreel smiles at him, wide and warm and uncomplicated. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam scratches at the back of his head, offers a small smile in turn. “Not a problem.”

* * *

“That kitten is a piece of shit,” Dean mutters, extremely unhappy as he sets the kitten back on the floor. He had crawled up one of the library chairs and jumped onto the table, for the sole purpose of walking across the books Dean was digging through.

“At least he doesn’t shed much,” Sam offers, by way of condolence. Gadreel just makes a face that says very clearly what he thinks Dean is as he gathers up the kitten and rests him gently over his shoulder.

The kitten mewls, happily draping himself across the back of Gadreel’s neck. Gadreel holds his head very still, so as not to disturb the tiny creature. It’s unclear what breed the cat is, or if he’s just the result of feral cats and good luck, but his fur is a soft, dark brown, nearly black, and very short, with two amber eyes that glow out of his face like headlights. And he’s apparently decided to imprint on Gadreel as a mother figure, will follow him around the bunker relentlessly, scratch at doors if Gadreel closes it before he can get inside, keeps the angel in sight at all times.

In short, it’s adorable.

“He still needs a name, y’know,” Sam remarks idly.

Dean glowers. “No names. No attachment. We are  _not_  keeping this thing.”

Gadreel’s glare could melt steel. It’s hilarious, mostly because of the kitten around his broad shoulders, but also because he’s normally so mild-mannered that seeing him get up-in-arms for a kitten is  _hysterical._

When Sam moves from the table to the couch where Gadreel sits with his book, the kitten blinks his eyes open, squeaks a little as he stands and stretches. Then he walks across Gadreel’s shoulders and makes a tiny jump onto Sam’s, who was expecting it and the accompanying dig of tiny claws into his shirt. He mews directly into Sam’s ear, and starts playing with his hair.

Dean has stopped glowering at them, and is instead staring incredulously. “Dude.”

“What?” Sam asks innocently, not looking up from his book. The kitten starts trying to climb on top of his head.

Dean stares at them some more, and then he sighs heavily. “Fine. Damnit, fine, you win. Name it. Keep it. At least until my allergies start acting up.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Prompt: Sam knows that Gadreel spent millions of years alone and touch-starved, so he makes sure to lays Gadreel out and softly kiss everywhere. From his fingertips to his eyelids to right under his jaw to chest. And between kisses he might whisper things that he loves about Gadreel like how strong he must been to survive prison etc. and Gadreel just lies too overcome with emotion but to lie there and tear up.

Sam presses a kiss to the tip of Gadreel’s nose, feels more than sees the slight smile it earns him in the dark of their room. He’s straddling the angel’s hips where he’s sprawled out on the bed; his hand undoes the buttons of Gadreel’s shirt while he braces himself with an arm in the pillows just above their position, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Gadreel hums a little, closing his eyes as he relaxes, only to make a small, surprised noise when Sam presses feather-light kisses to his eyelids. Sam keeps going, peppers his cheekbones with light kisses, follows the line of his jaw, until he ends up at Gadreel’s lips. The kiss is warm and slow, any tension remaining in the angel melting away like butter in the sun.

Sam trails his lips up to Gadreel’s ear, kissing the spots just below and behind it. “I love you,” Sam breathes. The whisper of his voice would have been inaudible if it hadn’t been spoken directly into Gadreel’s ear. As it was, the words still made Gadreel gasp, his whole body stiffening.

“Sam -”

“Please, Gadreel,” Sam shifts the hand on Gadreel’s chest to curl around his cheek instead, as he leans their foreheads together. “I know that you don’t think you deserve it. But pretending that if I don’t say it then I don’t love you isn’t going to change anything, because I  _do_  love you, regardless of your completely unfounded feelings of inadequacy.”

Gadreel raises a hand to curl around Sam’s cheek in turn, fingers buried in his soft, brown hair. Sam sighs, catching his hand and holding it still as he turns and presses a soft, dry kiss to his palm. “I love you,” he murmurs again. Gadreel shivers, but he says nothing.

Sam lets Gadreel’s hand fall back to the bed and slides a little further down, eyes level with Gadreel’s throat. He presses a soft kiss to the hollow there, and then his Adam’s apple. “I love your kindness,” he murmurs, feels the hummingbird-flutter of Gadreel’s heart against his lips. “You’re always gentle, with me and with kids on hunts and with those tiny, tiny baby animals you always save.”

Kisses trail along the underside of his jaw. Sam’s mouth lingers over Gadreel’s pulse, leaving behind the faintest mark. “I love your strength. I love that _you_  love your strength, that being strong is a comfort to you. That protection of others is a priority for you.”

Sam moves lower, feather light kisses along the thin skin of his collar bones. “I love your weakness. I love every last soft spot that will force you to kneel, because they keep you from turning into something ruthless. They keep you _you_.”

Gadreel’s shallow breathing is apparent now, with Sam’s forehead resting against his bare sternum, shirt pooling on either side of his ribcage. Then, Sam presses another, firmer kiss to the sturdy bone. “I love your -” Sam pauses, mouth curling into a grin. “You would say your selfishness. I’d say your will to survive. You might come back half-dead, but you  _will_  come back. Every. Last. Time.” He punctuates each word with another kiss.

Sam’s lips traverse Gadreel’s ribs. “I love your compassion. You’ve never blamed me for my mistakes, never once looked twice at Cas for what he’s done. You pity monsters that never had a choice in what they became, the ones who were born into killing, the ones who ended up the way they did by accident and necessity, and that’s a lot more than most would ever show.”

Gadreel’s breathing is still quick and shallow, his hands clenched at his sides. Sam presses a straight line of kisses down his stomach, from just below his sternum, over his navel, ending at the waistband of his pants. Sam takes a moment, breathes in the smell of clean skin and rain and sand, before leaning back. He gathers Gadreel’s hands in his own, kisses the back of each before moving on to the knuckles, smoothing the tension out of each as he goes. He kisses the palm of each, holds them and rubs circles over the back of them as he speaks.

“I love your understanding. You’ve been - You’ve been tortured, extensively, in ways that I will never fully comprehend. You have scars that I can’t see, can’t understand the depth of. Now, I’m not glad in any way that you went through that. But…I  _am_ glad that will never have to explain my nightmares to you. You understand what I need when I wake up screaming, you know how to help me, because you have them too. We’ve shared that experience, the constant fear, how it eats away at you. And I try my best to help you when you wake up screaming, because I love you.”

“I love you,” Sam repeats fiercely, squeezing the limp hands in his own. “I love all of you, every scar, every flaw, every broken inch of you, Gadreel. I refuse to _stop_  loving you because you can’t love yourself. I love you, and if you can’t, then I will love you enough for the both of us.”

Gadreel lets out a quiet sound, something halfway between a sob and a laugh, reaches a hand out to match the curve of Sam’s neck and pull their foreheads together. Sam brushes his thumbs over Gadreel’s cheeks, damp with tears. Gadreel swallows roughly, and the deep, shuddering breath he takes is loud in the quiet of their room.

“I love you as well.” Gadreel’s voice is a shaking wreck, the typical refinement of it utterly lost. He opens his mouth, like he plans on saying something else, but all that escapes him is another noise, lost and overwhelmed.

“I know,” Sam murmurs, kisses his forehead, and then his lips, warm and gentle. “I know you do, Gadreel.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> How about one of them being sick and the other one taking care of them?
> 
> A timestamp my fallen!gadreel verse, though this one comes before the very first drunken one.

When Gadreel sleeps though breakfast, Sam knows something is wrong. The angel -  _fallen_  angel, Sam reminded himself - had never missed a meal, not even the morning after his first hunt with them when he’d broken his ankle. He’d hobbled his way into the kitchen with no small amount of determination, nearly collapsing before he managed to get himself seated at the table.

Sam remembers trying to impart the importance of taking care of injuries on him, but Gadreel had merely informed him, quite seriously, that food was more important.

But right now, he’s nowhere to be seen. The smell of baking dough and cinnamon has somehow not lured Gadreel from wherever he slept last night and into the kitchen, and that is - that is cause for worry. Sam takes two cups of coffee and heads out to find the wayward sentry.

The library is empty. None of the frequently used storage rooms contain him. Sam starts thinking a little more creatively. He goes through each of Gadreel’s normal sleeping spots, one by one, and comes up frustrated and empty-handed.

It occurs to him, delayedly, that checking Gadreel’s  _room_  might be a good idea.

When he knocks, there’s no reply, but the door swings open slightly. “Gadreel?” Sam’s voice is hesitant, quiet.

No response. He opens the door a little further, and the hallway light touches on a lump curled in a ball on the bed. Sam sighs, relieved. “There you are. What’re you still doing in bed, man? Dean’s almost done with breakfast.”

Again, no response. Frowning, Sam flicks on the lights and comes further into Gadreel’s barren room. The lump on the bed twitches when the light comes on, but nothing more than that happens. Sam goes around the edge of the bed, and heaves out a sigh when he sees Gadreel’s face.

He’s sleeping, that much is clear, his eyes moving quickly beneath closed lids. His cheeks are flushed red, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead. Carefully, Sam comes closer, presses a hand to his burning cheek. Just to be sure, he kisses Gadreel’s forehead, his skin burning Sam’s lips.

“Gadreel,” Sam prompts gently, lightly shaking him. “C’mon, man. Wake up.”

The movement of his eyes stills, and then he groans. Sam laughs a little. “Time to wake up, Gad.”

His whole face scrunches up adorably, eyes opening at a squint. “No,” he rasps, clutching the blankets tightly. “Too cold.”

“You don’t have to get up,” Sam assures him. “I think you’re sick. Best not to have you wandering around. But I’m going to bring you water, and some breakfast, okay?”

Gadreel mutters something unintelligible, and closes his eyes again. Sam makes his way quietly back to the kitchen.

“So,” Dean glances up from the stove, where he’s keeping an eye on the eggs. “Where’s the angel?”

Sam starts rooting around the pantry as he answers, “Still in bed. I think he’s sick.”

“What? No way,” Dean laughs a little. “How sick?”

“Just a fever, hopefully,” Sam mutters, and pulls out a can of soup with a victorious noise. “I don’t wanna test his stomach too much, so I’m just gonna heat up some soup for him.”

“Hey, do we have any rice?”

“Wha - No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Hm,” Dean frowns, and takes the eggs off the stove. “I gotta do a grocery run tonight anyways.” He shoots Sam a grin. “We’re having tomato-rice soup for dinner.”

Oh. “Oh,” Sam blinks at him, feeling vaguely surprised. “Okay.”

Dean nods, mostly to himself, clears his throat, and fills a plate with food before heading into the library to eat. Sam heats up the soup and brings it back to Gadreel’s room, along with a plate full of eggs and cinnamon rolls.

He finds Gadreel facing the door this time, eyes half open. “Sam,” he says, sounding confused, and tries to sit up, only to give up halfway through and curl back beneath the blankets.

Sam sets the plates down. “I brought breakfast,” he announces, keeps his voice low. He reaches out, presses his hand to the side of Gadreel’s face, which is definitely still burning. “How do you feel?”

Gadreel blinks at him. “Tired,” he says slowly. “And I ache.”

“Like, punched in the head kind of ache, or thrown through a wall kind of ache?”

Gadreel hums, eyes closing again. “The latter.”

“I’ll bring you some medicine in a minute,” Sam promises. “Breakfast?” he prompts again.

Slowly, Gadreel sits up, and Sam adjusts the pillows for him before handing him a thermos full of soup. “It’s just chicken broth, but try and drink it slowly, okay?”

Gadreel nods, and Sam leaves to dig through a linen closet in search of flu medication. But when he turns around, Gadreel is stumbling down the hall.

“Gad, where are you -” The angel hurries himself through the bathroom door and Sam’s first thought is  _aw hell._  Then he runs after him, comes in just in time to see Gadreel barfing up yellow-tinged water into the toilet.

Sam kneels beside him, rubs a hand over his back and gentle fingers through his hair, says mindless, soothing nonsense until all Gadreel is doing is gasping, hunched over. The angel leans against him, wraps one arm around Sam and clings to him. Sam keeps a hand on the back of his neck until Gadreel’s breathing evens out.

“That was unpleasant,” he manages at last, and Sam laughs.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “It’s never fun. You okay to stand?”

“I think so.”

He manages to stand on shaky legs, looking a little green again by the time he’s upright, swaying a little. Sam holds him steady, helps him move to sit on the edge of the bathtub, and gets him a glass of water.

“Thank you,” Gadreel says, sounding extremely relieved as he takes slow, careful sips.

Sam smiles, shrugs. “’S no big deal. You’re sick. I’m glad to help you out.”

“I am grateful, regardless,” Gadreel sounds extremely serious, but there’s a small smile in the corners of his mouth that makes the fever Sam wakes up with the next day (and all the bitching from Dean) completely worth it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your enjoyment, here are my tags:
> 
> #i was halfway done with this and i was like but sick!sam and i had tot ell myself to stop #i am literally not capable of dealing with all the feelings i would have had to give gadreel about that #can you imagine how awful fallen!gadreel would have felt seeing sam get sick #he'd be really upset and broken up about how he couldnt heal sam #but he wouldnt show it at all and would act completely normal until he was alone #but sam knows #of course he knows #so when gadreel is hesitating at his bedroom door ready to say goodnight #sam is just too far gone in his fever and on his meds to care he just kinda looks up at gadreel and asks him to stay #either way they both end up getting sick #no matter who got sick first #whether or not they're already dating #ah yes


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maadskittlez29 asked:  
> How about Sam teaching Gadreel how to use a gun?
> 
> just skip this one okay good fucking lord just skip it its so bad i want to pretend this didnt happen urgh im no good with guns okay im sorry im so sorry my friend i have failed you

Gadreel shifts a little from side to side, holding the cool metal in his hand. It was heavy, heavier than they looked when Sam and Dean threw them around.

Sam stood next to him, expression calm and businesslike. “You don’t know anything about guns, do you?”

Gadreel shakes his head. “Humanity hadn’t invented them before I was imprisoned, and my vessel only ever used knives.”

“Alright,” Sam nods. “First things first then - always assume that the gun is loaded. Even if you’ve triple checked it, treat it like it’s loaded. That means keep it aimed low and away from civilians. Keep your finger off the trigger unless you intend to shoot what you’re pointing at.”

Over the next hour, Sam walks him through the process of breaking down a gun, cleaning it, and putting it back together, all the while mentioning safety procedures, along with fun anecdotes about what happens when you _don’t_  follow the safety measures.

“ - had to spend at least three hours in the ER getting all the shrapnel out of us.” Sam laughs a little. “We’re just lucky the shot had a high spread, or else that bullet would’ve gone straight through Dean’s collarbone. Lot more painful than shrapnel. Ready to try and shoot?”

Gadreel blinks at him. “Isn’t there some sort of stance I need to follow?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Here, I’ll show you.”

Gadreel bites his cheek as Sam gets behind him, just a hair’s width of space between them as he softly gives instructions on how to stand, making minute corrections to the movements Gadreel makes. He nudges Gadreel’s legs just a little further apart, checks his grip, and then steps away, smiling.

“You got it?” Carefully, Gadreel nods. “Alright then. Go for it.”

Gadreel takes a breath, finds his target, and pulls the trigger. The shot is loud, and when he looks, he finds the the bullet isn’t quite where he wanted it, buried in the target’s shoulder instead of its chest. But Sam is nodding.

“That was good,” he praises, and Gadreel smiles at him, warming under the approval. Sam offers him a quick grin, and jerks his head at the target. “Try again.”

They spend an hour or two down there every day they can for nearly a month, and when Sam declares to Dean that they should get Gadreel his own gun, he could nearly choke on the pride in Sam’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was a good day for tags. One more chapter for the night, I think:
> 
> #sorry this is actually bad#like really bad damn#sorry#im not good with the weapons things unless they're like knives and swords and shit#and i know sam uses guns (he looks like a contract killer every time he does and its scary af but also attractive)#but he really strikes me a more of a knife guy#and gadreel should be using a claymore tbh#and when gad uses guns in any verse i feel like it would only ever be shotguns or sniper rifles#he's literally the type of person to show up with a knife at gunfight and kick everyone's asses#fanfic#mine#i am ashamed#i was gonna put this in the fallen!gadreel verse but no. just no.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nooothisisnotshelby asked:  
> Sadreel Prompt: Gadreel has a lot of nightmares which leads to a lot of night of not being able/too scared to fall asleep. But one night Sam finds him in the library passed out and when he tired to wake him up he's starts to panic and Sam had to calm him down (this one can be part of the drunk Gadreel verse)
> 
> Ah yes this is one of my favorite things to write about with sadreel.  
> This particular timestamp comes after the events of Chapter 6  
> As an aside, I'm going to inform you that I will be reposting Chapters 4, 6, 9, and this one as timestamps in a separate verse for fallen!gadreel. I'll continue to post the prompted ones here, but when I write unprompted ones they will only go in the timestamp collection. So keep an eye out for that, once I post it :)

Sam knows Gadreel has issues sleeping. It’s obvious, really, even if there hadn’t been that delightful little incident when Gadreel had stumbled his way drunkenly into Sam’s bed two weeks ago. He’ll startle awake in the backseat of Impala every time they hit a pothole. He jumps if Sam touches him while he’s starting to slump over in his chair. He sleeps in places that no one should be sleeping - chairs, leaning against bookshelves; once Sam found him half-asleep leaning against the concrete stairs into the bunker.

He won’t talk about it, and Sam hasn’t really pressed the issue. They all have trouble sleeping sometimes. Their lives aren’t really conducive towards positive dreams, after all. But the circles under Gadreel’s eyes are getting extremely dark, he’s listless, and he’s been drinking coffee by the pot. Even Dean has made a comment at this point.

When Sam comes out of his room at two in the morning, desperate for tea and the calming presence of books to soothe his own frazzled mind, he minds Gadreel in the library. He’s slumped over a pile of half-finished Enochian translations. There’s ink along his cheekbone, accentuating the frown on his mouth and ringing Sam’s attention to the furrow in his brow.

He twitches, and the hand sprawled out over the desktop balls into a fist before unclenching. Then he whimpers, quiet and painful, and buries his face in his arm with a short gasp.

Sam comes closer, tea forgotten. “Gadreel?”

“No,” his voice is raw with sleep and full of fear. “No, no - I didn’t - I  _didn’t_  -”

Sam’s right beside him now, reaches out and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Gadreel,” he says again, and shakes him a little.

Gadreel’s eyes fly open with a gasp, and he’s suddenly on his feet and stumbling away, angel blade in hand, the chair falling loudly against the floor as it gets thrown back. His eyes flicker around the room, and he gasps desperately for breath, terror filling every line of him. 

Sam holds his hands low, palms open. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says, and Gadreel’s eyes fly to him, seeming confused. “It’s okay, Gadreel, you’re safe here. You’re in the bunker. You’re free. You’re safe, Gadreel.”

It takes a moment for his words to filter through, and the blade lowers. “Sam?”

Sam smiles, nods. “Yeah, Gadreel. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Behind Gadreel, Dean appears, half dressed and drowsy, but grows alert at the sight before him. Sam meets his eyes and shakes his head, and Gadreel follows his gaze, jumps and turns to put himself between Dean and Sam.

Dean holds up his hands, carefully backing away down the hallway, and Sam reaches out, grabs the hand holding his weapon. “Gadreel, it’s okay, it’s just Dean, he isn’t going to hurt you, I swear. Can you - can you drop the blade, Gadreel?”

The angel killer hits the floor with a quiet  _thunk_ , and Gadreel’s breathing speeds up. Sam smiles at him gently, moves to stand beside him. “Thank you,” he says softly, carefully moving his hand to rest on Gadreel’s shoulder. “Gadreel?”

“I -” Gadreel stops, takes a slower, shuddery breath. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“It’s alright, Gad,” Sam assures him, dares to rub a soothing hand over the top of Gadreel’s spine. The fallen angel shudders again, head falling, hands clenched tight into fists. “No one would dream of blaming you for this, okay? No need to apologize.”

Gadreel just nods, but now his hands are shaking, and the tremors spread to the rest of him in quick succession. “I don’t want to go back,” he admits softly. “I’m back in my cell, every time I dream, I always go back there. I can’t - I can’t keep doing this, Sam.”

He sounds so lost, so broken, so damn  _tired._  Sam takes a step closer, and doesn’t receive so much as a blink, so he wraps his arm firmly around Gadreel’s shoulders and hauls him against his chest. Gadreel makes a noise of surprise, but his hands wrap quickly around Sam’s back, clinging to him. Sam holds him tightly, keeps one arm around his shoulders and lets the other stroke through the soft hair at the base of his neck. 

Gadreel tucks his face into the crook of Sam’s neck, and Sam turns his head to press a kiss to Gadreel’s hair. “You’re not there, Gadreel,” Sam tells him, soft and quiet. “I promise, you aren’t ever going back there.”

Gadreel gives a single harsh mimic of a laugh into Sam’s shoulder, and Sam feels something hot and wet hit his shirt. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise that I’d kill anyone who even tried,” Sam says, absolutely serious. “And if they managed to take you, Cas would kill whoever took you and bring you back here. No one is locking you away in Heaven ever again. Not if I can help it.”

“Thank you,” Gadreel breathes, hugs Sam a little tighter. “But I still don’t think I’m ever going to be able to sleep.”

“You slept alright when you slept with me,” Sam points out.

Gadreel nods. “I did. But -”

“No. No buts. You spend the rest of the night with me, okay? If you have another nightmare, then we’ll try something else. But if you just need a tangible reminder that you aren’t alone in a cell, then I’m willing to let you sleep with me. I told you this two weeks ago, Gad,” Sam adds, a touch petulantly, and Gadreel smiles a little into his shirt, even as his body continues to shake.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, kisses the side of his head again, and starts moving them towards his room.

Later, Sam will wake up in his room with the clock telling him it’s four in the morning and Gadreel curled around his back, his head tucked under the fallen angel’s chin, an arm wrapped over his stomach, and he’ll realize that he slept pretty damn soundly too. Maybe Gadreel isn’t the only one who needs someone to sleep with them. Then Gadreel will hum a little and tug Sam closer, and Sam will close his eyes and sleep in absolute contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags continuing directly from the last line:
> 
> #until Dean bangs on his door and tells him that breakfast is ready and that “would you please find that goddamn angel he’s hiding again.”#Gadreel will start to say something and Sam will cover his mouth in a panic as he answers Dean before quickly explaining to gadreel why dean cannot know that he's sleeping here cause dean will have a gay panic FOR sam for no reason#and gadreel just smiles and nods and follows sam to bed that night and every night after#sighs#these two are my fucking faves right now#sam being gadreel's rock during a panic attack is my favorite thing for this pairing#followed closely by sam being super protective of gadreel whether he's fallen or not


	12. Social Rituals of a Romantic Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have returned from the dead to give you trash

Sam isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking at.

“Gadreel?” The angel meets his confused stare with worried eyes. “What  _is_ this?”

Gadreel shifts, hesitating slightly. “I - I found a book, in the library, detailing social rituals of a romantic nature. It placed emphasis on the gender roles, but as those do not apply to us, I thought it would be alright if I…started it, I suppose. Was I wrong? Is there some other criteria -”

“Gadreel,” Sam stops him gently, and Gadreel falls silent, cheeks tinged pink. “I meant, what kind of stone is this?”

It’s beautiful, whatever it is. Black like a void but littered with fine, shimmering pale blue specks that catch the golden light of the lamp. It’s been hewn roughly, with three sides that have clearly been dulled to reduce the sharpness and the jaggedness even if it can’t be completely eradicated. Wrapped in fine platinum wire and attached to a long delicate chain, the necklace is only half the size of Sam’s palm.

“It isn’t,” Gadreel explains. “The book said that it was important the gift be meaningful, so I went to the outer edges of this star cluster and tore it from the aether. It was a - a common thing, among angels, in the beginning, though it is less so now. I found it - fitting, to give you something ethereal. You care little for the inanimate, but much for flowers and stars, so I thought - oh!”

Gadreel stops with a little gasp of surprise, because Sam has thrown his arms around the angel in a fierce hug, laughing. He wraps his arms around Sam in return, delighted when Sam moves to kiss him, sweet and warm and burning.

“You ripped dark matter out of the sky for me,” Sam says, and he’s grinning.

“Do you like it?”

“Do I -” Sam laughs again, a little helplessly, curls his empty hand around Gadreel’s cheek. “Gadreel, you just brought me a piece of the universe. How could I  _not_  love it?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> Could you maybe write post sex, hazy cuddling? But if that's not your thing that's cool

Gadreel has a leg strewn over Sam’s thighs, head laying on Sam’s chest, sheets tangled around their waists. He watches Sam with drowsy, half-lidded eyes, notes the way the faint sheen of sweat is drying around his hairline, how his lips are parted  as he dozes. He’s beautiful. Even if he were capable of being unbiased, Gadreel would still think him beautiful.

He hums a little, and Sam’s breathing shifts, eyes opening to reveal warm, dark hazel. Then Sam smiles, tilts his head forward a little, and Gadreel moves towards him and accepts a lazy kiss, warm and sated and slow. Sam’s hand slides over Gadreel’s waist, draws a sedate line up his spine until he reaches the soft hairs on the back of the angel’s neck. He rubs his fingers there, easily stimulating the nerves that force the rest of Gadreel’s body to shudder its way into absolute bonelessness, and Gadreel’s head falls back to Sam’s chest.

Gadreel presses a butterfly kiss to Sam’s collarbone, and Sam smiles as the kisses move, trailing up the curve of his neck, along his jaw, and finally back to his mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against Sam’s lips, which curl up into a shy smile, followed up by a breathy laugh. “You are,” Gadreel insists. “You’re exquisite, Sam.”

Sam kisses him again, warm and lazy. “Mmm,” he hums after they’ve broken apart, their foreheads leaning together, “I think we should be asleep.”

That draws out a small laugh, and then Gadreel’s head goes back to resting on Sam’s chest. Sam’s arm slides lower, pressed solidly against Gadreel’s back to hold him in place, opposite hand thrown out to the side. It isn’t long before they’re both asleep, wrapped up so thoroughly in each other that from an outside view, it would be hard to tell where one ended and one began.


End file.
